


Boba's Back

by chamomiletea (airandangels)



Category: The Mandalorian (TV)
Genre: Crying, Depression, Dry Humping, First Time, Grief/Mourning, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Massage, Mutual Masturbation, Scars, Virgin Din Djarin
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-07
Updated: 2021-03-07
Packaged: 2021-03-13 05:53:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,465
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29896593
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/airandangels/pseuds/chamomiletea
Summary: A short thing I wrote while waiting for something to shake loose in my main Mandalorian fic, loosely inspired bythis.  Boba Fett and Din Djarin alone together after season 2, some hurt, some comfort, some skin care, some dry-humping, so something for nearly everyone.
Relationships: Din Djarin/Boba Fett
Comments: 18
Kudos: 220





	Boba's Back

“If you’re not busy, could you come and give me a hand with something?”

Din looks up at Boba Fett. There was a light touch of sarcasm on “if you’re not busy,” because he has spent the time since Grogu left with the Jedi doing nothing, day after day, first lying on a bunk aboard  _ Slave One _ facing the wall, then sitting in a chair looking at the floor. He did the right thing, he knows he did the right thing, he did the only right thing possible in the circumstances, but it feels so awful that he’s stunned into blank emptiness by it. He misses the kid more than he would have believed possible even when he was dreading giving him up, and he’s broken a sacred promise twice, and the second time it was definitely on purpose, without even the poor excuse of being forced to by an emergency. He didn’t feel he had any right to put his helmet back on after that. His face feels very bare and exposed and lights are too bright and noises are too loud, but he supposes he’ll get used to that. There isn’t really any choice. 

Boba has just let him stay with him on his ship, and now in a rather comfortable house that he maintains as a bolthole on Tatooine, and has asked nothing of him, and he doesn’t think he has anything to give now anyway. Maybe Boba’s finally getting fed up with him taking up space. He should make an effort. It’s ungrateful not to. He really does appreciate the place to stay, and the fact that when he was too worn out by emotion to know what to say, Boba told Bo-Katan to leave him alone and give him time, the Darksaber could damn well wait, and she actually backed down. At least she knew it was safe with him and he wouldn’t use it to usurp her, he guesses. The whole idea of that would be funny if he could laugh. It takes a long time to gather the effort to do anything, and Boba’s looking at him a little impatiently.

“Sure,” he says, and gets up from his chair. 

“Come over here,” says Boba, and walks towards his room. 

He knows Boba’s a different sort of Mandalorian than him in many ways, but it still surprises him that he doesn’t wear his armour at home. It seems awfully relaxed even for someone who hasn’t taken the Creed. When he’s flying the ship and they’re actively travelling, he wears it, but now, in an underground house built into a cave system further carved out, he pads around in bare feet and a pair of loose soft trousers and a similar kind of collarless shirt, light blue, with the sleeves turned up over his forearms. Like now. You can see the mottled scars there too, it isn’t just his face and scalp. Din isn’t sure what happened there, neither Boba nor Fennec Shand has alluded to it, but he knows what burn scars look like, and these look more like chemical burns than fire or radiation burns to him. Something very corrosive, maybe acid, has permanently changed the skin of Boba’s head and arms at least. It must have been very painful, so he feels it’s most respectful not to ask.

“They go all over,” Boba says as they step into his room, as if he read his mind, and Din feels his face get hot with embarrassment. He supposes it’s turning red and Boba can see that. It’s unnerving to have every sign of your feelings so exposed. 

“I’m sorry,” he says, “I didn’t mean to stare.”

“It’s okay,” says Boba. “I don’t expect you not to notice, or pretend I look perfectly normal. That’d annoy me. Believe it or not, they used to look a lot worse. All red and raised. I’d think they were healed and then they’d crack and weep and scab again.”

Din looks around the room so that he’s not staring at Boba. Making direct eye contact with people, with no visor between them, knowing they can see exactly where his eyes are pointing, is still difficult and weird for him. This is his first look at Boba’s bedroom. It’s a plain, simple room, befitting its owner, he guesses. There’s a well equipped weapons rack and his armour on a stand. On a softer note, he sees a small picture on the wall of a man and a little boy — the family resemblance is obvious but he’s not sure if that’s Boba and his father, or perhaps Boba and his own son, before whatever fried his skin and took away his hair. Maybe the same event took his son, if he had one. He really doesn’t want to ask him about that. There aren’t many other decorations, a calendar, a jar of shells and stones, a shelf of hydroponic plants under a long UV lamp. The bed is neatly made with the grey quilt firmly tucked in. There’s a mirror and a washbasin and another door that probably goes into a bathroom. There’s also a shelf holding a lot of pharmaceutical-looking stuff, from which Boba is taking a large bottle with a pump top. 

“My skin’s never going to be quite like it was, but it’s still slowly getting better,” says Boba. “I need to keep using this stuff daily, otherwise it dries out fast, especially in a climate like Tatooine. It’s always difficult to get my back. Would you help me out with that?”

“Okay.” That doesn’t seem like a difficult or unreasonable request. It’s pretty personal, which does feel weird, but everything feels weird right now and after all, it’s just a matter of repaying Boba’s kindness. 

“Thanks,” says Boba, and smiles at him, and he tries to smile in return but it feels strange and fake. It’s not that he doesn’t smile, but he’s not used to  _ making _ a smile  _ for someone else. _ Normally it’s just him smiling to himself unseen. Well, “normal” has to change now. He won’t get that privacy back. “All right then,” says Boba, hands him the bottle and turns around and pulls his shirt off over his head, keeping it hanging over his arms in front of him. 

The scars do go all over, and on his back they’ve half destroyed a large mythosaur skull tattoo. It surprises him again that Boba would have that. As far as he knows it’s not really a Mandalorian thing to have tattoos, since who’s ever going to see them? But who knows what’s normal for Mandalorians? Clearly not him. He isn’t really a judge of tattoos but it clearly took some time to make so it seems a shame that it’s mostly been effaced. It reminds him of tatters of an old poster stuck to a brick wall, Boba’s broad, brown back looking just that solid. 

He realises at this point that he needs to take off his gloves, and that he’s going to be touching Boba’s back directly, without even a layer of cloth in between them. He tucks the bottle awkwardly under one arm while he pulls his gloves off and tucks them into his belt, then pumps what proves to be a white lotion with a cool, fresh smell into his hand. He puts the bottle back on the shelf beside them and rubs his palms together, then places them on Boba’s back. The lotion feels cool and by contrast the skin is very warm. He’s touched two other people this closely since taking the Creed and one of them is himself. Then of course there was Grogu, because he needed baths and a lot of wiping off in between. 

And a fresh stab of guilt goes into his heart, because why didn’t he  _ tell _ the Jedi about that? That he needs really mild soap or his skin gets itchy and flaky, that there are a lot of little chubby folds and creases between his limbs and body so you have to make sure you clean in between and then  _ dry _ in between or he’ll get a rash. Why didn’t he grab the man’s arm and make him sit down and explain to him everything Grogu needed and make him promise he would do all of it? And leave him a name and a forwarding address?

It doesn’t matter anyway. Grogu will be able to communicate with the Jedi in a way he could never communicate with him. It must have been dreary and frustrating for him living with some rube who didn’t understand anything he said and had to learn everything through trial and error. The Jedi will just  _ know  _ what to do and do it right, and Grogu will be so much happier. He should be  _ glad _ that he’ll be happier. He shouldn’t feel this pain. 

“You all right?” Boba asks, and he realises he was just standing there with his hands on his back for about a minute, not moving. 

“Sorry,” he says, his face getting hotter. 

“Looking at the tattoo?” Boba asks. 

“Yes,” he says, grateful for the half-true excuse. He smooths his hands down Boba’s back and tries to do it as if it were his own skin, nothing to be embarrassed by. 

“Damn shame,” said Boba. “I’d just got it redone about a year before my accident. Prison tattoos you get when you’re fourteen don’t age very well. All stretched out and faded and blurry. Have you done time?”

“No. I might have to if I got picked up in a few places, but I always managed to avoid it. I was… strongly motivated to avoid a situation where I’d be strip-searched and put in a uniform.”

“Don’t blame you,” says Boba. “Can you go across my shoulders too?”

“Okay.” The texture of the skin changes noticeably as he works the lotion in, feeling smoother and more pliable, though uneven. He realises Boba is facing the mirror over the sink and may be able to see him over his shoulder, but when he takes a furtive look he finds Boba is standing with his head slightly down and his eyes closed. He looks calm. He himself looks wide-eyed and foolish, and he needs to trim his beard. That’s it, he’s rubbed it in over the whole surface of Boba’s back. Done. “Is that enough?”

Boba rolls his shoulders experimentally, and Din sees that although the skin is no longer smooth the movement of the muscles still is. “That’ll do nicely,” he says. “Thank you.”

“Okay. Good.” He’s not sure what to say or do now, and Boba is pulling his shirt back on, so he puts his gloves on and leaves. 

He’s trying to spend his time meditating or exercising, as much as he can without leaving the house. It’s a desert out there, of course, and the house is hidden in a canyon. Boba has told him he doesn’t want to be known to be back on Tatooine just yet (Fennec Shand is off making some kind of enquiries for him in heavy disguise) and it’s best if the place still appears uninhabited. He does a lot of sit-ups and push-ups and tries to make himself physically tired enough to sleep more. Boba seems perfectly content to spend this down time resting, reading in his room, or taking care of his weapons and armour in the combined workshop-garage kind of space in the camouflaged hangar for his ship. Din joins him for that sometimes, because he can be helpful holding and passing things. Boba is making some long overdue upgrades to his armour, grumbling as he does about how poorly that cowboy maintained it and how lucky he is that the more combustible parts hadn’t exploded while he was wearing them. Din sometimes tries to put in a good word for Cobb Vanth, who he’d ended up liking very much, but Boba is clearly enjoying his grumbling so he generally lets it go.

And each day Boba asks him to help with the lotion on his back. He seems to enjoy that too, just because it’s soothing, Din supposes. He’s quite comfortable doing it now, even when Boba calls him in to do it and turns out to be wearing only a towel, having just come out of the shower. He says it’s good to apply the lotion straight out of the shower while you’re warm and your pores are open, which Din guesses makes sense. Since Boba’s arms are bare, without his shirt half over them the way it was the first time, he hesitantly offers to do them too while he’s there. If it’s soothing and nice for Boba, well, he deserves something nice for how much he’s helped him, and it makes him feel a bit better about himself for a while that he’s doing something to take care of someone. Boba accepts that offer readily, so he works over his arms from the shoulders to the wrists, looking on the way at the traces of tattoos that remain on his upper arms. Again, Boba seems to have chosen designs that accentuate the strength and bulk of his body, curved geometric lines wrapping around his biceps. 

“Do you think you’ll get them redone one day?” he asks, touching the broken band on the right upper arm. 

“Scar tissue doesn’t take ink too well,” says Boba. “You like them, don’t you?”

“They’re nice,” Din says, a bit weakly. 

“You should get some yourself. I can take you to a guy.”

“Oh, no, I don’t…”

“Don’t what?”

“There wouldn’t be much point.” He moves over to the other arm and takes another pump of lotion in his palm to work into it. “No one would see it.”

“You wouldn’t show me?” Boba asks. 

Din doesn’t know what to say. He just keeps rubbing lotion into the dry spot on Boba’s elbow. 

“Is it just that you’re so used to it you don’t ever consider anything else, or do you really not feel safe to take off some of that armour here?” Boba asks. 

“I’ve just always…”

“You’ve always worn a helmet, and you’re not doing that any more,” Boba says. “Do you think maybe you’d be more comfortable sometimes?”

“I don’t know.” Taking off the armour as well would leave him feeling like a snail without its shell.

“Would you like to give it a try?” Boba looks up slightly, meeting his eyes in the mirror. Maybe he takes some pity on Din’s confused hesitation. “Maybe tomorrow, eh?” he says. 

Tomorrow doesn’t go as expected, because in the early hours they get a distress call from Fennec, coming in hot over the dunes with half a dozen speeders on her tail. The two of them have to suit up fast and head out to meet them with rifles and grenades, and then as the sun comes up they have the hot, heavy work of cleaning up and concealing all the debris, mechanical and mortal, so it doesn’t give away the location of the hideout. It’s tiring and one guy who initially appeared pretty dead shows a final spurt of life and tries to stab Din in the thigh, although he’s too weak to do more than gouge a rip in his flight suit before he puts him down. 

“Who  _ was _ that?” Boba asks as they finally get back to the cool of the underground, lifting off his helmet and wiping his face. 

“Kanjiklub,” says Fennec, with an expressive lift of her eyebrows. 

“Fuckin’ Kanjiklub,” says Boba, shaking his head. 

“They pay good, though, when I’ve dealt with them,” says Din, leaning against the wall. He put his helmet on when they had to rush out, a purely practical choice that he gave very little thought, and now he’s fighting an internal battle over taking it off. It feels so right and comfortable, he feels like  _ himself, _ but he has no right to wear it. “What did they have against you?”

“It’s personal,” she says. “Thanks for having my back. You two made a good team.”

“Did you see how he dropped that fella who thought he was sneaking up on me?” Boba asks. “You’re a useful man to have around, Din.”

Din is genuinely surprised by how nice it feels to hear him say that. Maybe because he’ll never again hear praise or approval from his Armourer, he’s latching onto Boba as some sort of substitute authority figure.

“Come with me a minute, Din?” Boba asks, and he follows him along to his room. “Take your lid off,” he says when they’re alone. 

Din removes the helmet with a touch of chagrin at how badly he’d wanted to keep it on. 

“That’s better. I like being able to see your face,” says Boba, although then his nose wrinkles. He puts his hand on Din’s shoulder, leans forward and sniffs. “You’re getting a bit ripe,” he says. He blinks and asks, “Haven’t you got a change of clothes?”

Din blinks back at him. “You saw my ship get blown up. That was everything I owned.”

“I should’ve thought,” said Boba. “So you’ve had the same clothes on ever since? And then you got hot running around out there and the funk really blossomed.”

“I just… I haven’t…” He can’t explain why he hasn’t been able to get his act together to shower normally. It’s hard enough deciding to get up in the morning. It feels like one more step than he can handle, and he’s used to sleeping in his clothes anyway. 

Boba looks at him, his arms folded and his head on one side. “And it didn’t occur to you to say hey Boba, can I borrow your shower and a clean shirt and shorts?”

“I didn’t want to intrude,” Din says stiffly. Actually, he didn’t want to beg. He’s ashamed to be in the position he is, with nothing but the clothes he stood up in and the weapons he carried when the  _ Razor Crest  _ died. He knows he also needs to get his act together to access his account and buy new things but he’s only gradually been getting himself able to reliably help Boba around the place and do a bit of exercise rather than just lying down with his face to the wall. He could, of course, use the shower attached to his own room but he... hasn’t. He knows it’s feeble and useless but it’s where he is. 

“It’s not intruding,” Boba says. “Give yourself a break. Get in there and clean yourself up, kid. Once you’re in I’ll leave you something to put on.” He slaps Din on the shoulder and leaves the room. 

Din stands there for a moment feeling humiliated. He feels like a mess and a charity case and it bothers him particularly that just now he smelled bad to Boba. That’s not how he was raised or trained. Precisely because you kept your armour on almost all the time, you learned to be scrupulous about personal hygiene as much as you practically could, so you didn’t get crusty and fungal. Well, it’s time to fix that. Boba’s at least done him the favour of taking the decision out of his hands; he’s no longer hamstrung by his own lack of initiative. He takes off his armour briskly, stacks the pieces neatly by the wall, then strips out of his clothes and folds his pants and flight suit and lays them alongside. He bundles his socks and underwear up inside his shirt and puts it in a hamper in the corner. At last he goes into the bathroom and turns on the shower. 

The relief of getting clean is so strong that he just leans against the wall for a minute letting the shower pummel his head and shoulders and very quietly groans. He scrubs everything twice until his skin tingles with warmth. When he gets out he realises it’s use Boba’s towel or nothing. Presumably that’s all right with him, though he’s still very aware of the sense of being in someone else’s private place. He puts his head out into the bedroom and finds no one is there, and lying on the bed are a shirt and underwear. Oh, and pants, the soft loose drawstring kind Boba seems to like. He’s taken it on himself to remove his old ones too, though Din didn’t think they were that bad. He quickly gets dressed in the borrowed clothes and combs his hair with his fingers as well as he can, since obviously Boba doesn’t keep a comb around. He’s doing that when Boba taps at the door. 

“You decent?” he asks. 

“Yes,” says Din. 

“Good.” Boba walks in and starts taking off his armour. Din goes to leave but Boba asks, “Where are you going? I’ll want you to help me with my back after I’m done. Just have a seat and wait.”

There’s nowhere to sit but the bed, so he sits down on the side of it and wonders where he’s supposed to look when Boba is getting undressed in front of him. What’s the point of asking him if he’s decent if  _ he’s _ going to come in and strip off? He stops at his underwear, though, and goes into the bathroom like that. Din sits back with a sense of anticlimactic relief. He’s  _ seen _ people naked other than himself and Grogu, because occasionally the best place to nab a bounty has been somewhere like a bathhouse or a hotel room. Overall he wouldn’t recommend it. Naked people are difficult to grab, particularly if they’re wet or oily. You do what you have to and you feel glad you have gloves on. 

Then he doesn’t know what to do with himself while he waits. He looks around the room and wonders about the picture again, and picks up the book lying at the head of the bed and has a look. Boba’s reading  _ Operation Stardust,  _ a non-fiction book about how the Rebellion destroyed the first Death Star; apparently documents recently got declassified that explain a lot more than previously released about exactly what happened. It’s the sort of thing that he vaguely and generally knows was important without knowing any of the details. Maybe he should borrow the book after Boba finishes it, if it’s something he thinks was important. He has to ask himself again why he’s so concerned with pleasing Boba. It just sort of… feels right. It’s why he’s sitting here waiting obediently.

Boba comes back out in his towel and Din notices for the first time that he has some ugly fresh bruises over his ribs. 

“What happened there?” he asks, pointing to the same place on himself.

“That’s when I fell down the side of the dune and hit a rock,” Boba says, after taking a look at it. “Pulled my shoulder a bit, too.” He goes to the shelf and picks up the lotion bottle, looks at it thoughtfully, then says, “Could I ask you for a bit more than usual?”

“A bit more what?”

“Can I just lie down while you do it this time? It’d be comfortable.”

“Oh. Sure.” He gets up to let Boba lie down on his belly, his arms folded under his head. He gives a kind of rumbling sigh as he settles down. 

“Ever just feel like you’re held together with string and caffeine?” he asks. 

“Are you okay?”

“I’m tired, that’s all. I don’t make a fuss about it but I’m not as young as I was.”

“How old are you?” Din asks. He really can’t tell. Maybe the scars have erased lines on Boba’s face, maybe they’ve added ones he wouldn’t have developed naturally until he was older. 

Boba opens one eye and gives him a sharp look. “I’m forty-one,” he says.

“That’s not very old. That’s about my age.” It’s younger than he would have guessed, but not too dramatically.

“You were thinking I looked older, weren’t you.”

“I was thinking I couldn’t tell. Anyway. I’ll get your back.” He pumps some lotion into his hand and after a moment’s hesitation sits down on the side of the bed to rub it on Boba’s back. His eyes close again, contentedly, and Din can feel him relaxing, the big muscles of his neck and shoulders gradually softening. He feels good about that. He doesn’t know how to give a proper massage but at least he can rub in a way that seems to be soothing. He’s startled when he hears a sharp little sound from Boba, muffled by the pillow, and thinks he must have pressed on a sore place. His hands hesitate on Boba’s back and the sound comes again and this time he’s sure it’s a stifled sob. Is Boba Fett  _ crying?  _ Is he  _ making _ him cry?

“Are you okay?” 

“Fuck,” Boba mumbles, and Din can definitely hear the tears in his voice. “Don’t know what’s wrong with me.”

“Am I hurting you?” he asks, baffled. 

“No.” His breathing is getting laboured as he struggles to stop crying, but after a moment when it seems like he’s getting it under control he breaks and weeps quietly, burying his face in the pillow. 

“Please don’t cry,” Din says, at a loss. “I don’t know what I’m doing but I want to stop, if you can just tell me what’s upsetting you so bad.”

“Don’t  _ stop. _ Please,” Boba says, his voice raw. “I know it’s fucking pathetic but I really need you to touch me.”

“Like this?” He moves his hands up and down Boba’s back again, and he nods rapidly, so he continues. It doesn’t stop the crying like he’d hoped, but Boba doesn’t tell him to stop it, so he just carries on, pumps more lotion into his hands and slowly rubs over the whole of his back and shoulders, then his arms; Boba is finally calming down as he holds them out for him one after the other. “That’s all now,” Din tells him. “It’s okay. You’re okay. Please don’t cry. You’re so good to me, I don’t want you to be unhappy.”

Boba laughs weakly and sniffs hard. “I didn’t know I was going to do that. Sorry. I wouldn’t have asked — I’m trying to take care of  _ you,  _ not burden you.”

“You do take care of me. I don’t know why you’re doing it, but you take really good care of me.”

“Somebody should,” Boba mumbles. 

“No one needs to do that. I’m an adult.” Not a very functional one at the moment, true, but still his own responsibility.

“What the hell am  _ I, _ going to pieces like this?” He sniffs again and wipes his eyes on the pillowcase, and seems to be regaining some composure. “Bloody embarrassing.”

“It’s okay,” Din says again, patting his back. “You’re probably just tired.”

“I don’t cry when I get tired.” Boba props himself up on his elbows and rubs his face with both hands, sliding them up over his head to the back of his neck. “It was just you.”

“I did something wrong?”

“No, I… I just felt grateful and… I asked you to do this because it  _ is _ a little inconvenient to reach my back and because I wanted to give you things to do that made you feel better, like you were helping, taking care of someone. I don’t know how to make someone not depressed except for telling them to harden up, but it seemed like it was doing you some good.”

“You think I’m depressed?” Din asked, surprised. 

“Or you’ve got a broken heart. Call it what you like. You spent two days in bed looking at the wall. I got worried about you. I was starting to think I’d have to force you to eat something. Then you got yourself up but you still looked all hollowed out. The only thing I could think of was to tell you I needed you for something.”

“Oh,” says Din, embarrassed. “So you don’t really need me to do this. You’re just being nice. You don’t have to do that.”

“I know I don’t have to, I want to. Don’t be stupid. You think I’d be keeping you with me like this if I didn’t want you around?” His hands are covering his face again, even though he’s facing away from Din. “And I wanted you to touch me and be close to me because I just want you. I didn’t want to take advantage when you were miserable though. I thought it was a good compromise. Then I got all weepy because it felt so good to… to just let you be kind to me. No one touches me like that. I would never ask them to. I felt weak but a  _ safe _ weak. I’m so fucking tired. And sore. All the time. I’m not a guy who stops. I keep going. I’m strong because I’ve had to be. You get that, don’t you? I know you do.”

“Uh-huh.” It’s not something he ever normally puts into words because he’s taken it for granted for so very long. Tired, and sore, always. And he’s never been as badly hurt, physically, as Boba has. And he’s still a bit stunned by that “I just want you.” He knows he wants Boba’s company and his attention and his approval, but he hasn’t been willing to consider how much he might want  _ him.  _ How do you tell someone you want them but you don’t even know how you might feel if you get them, and it’s entirely possible you’re wasting their time? They’re all emotions he’s never seriously entertained before. There was just no place for them in his life. 

“I’m sorry,” Boba says, putting his head down again. “This has been really dumb.”

“I’m not used to this,” Din says. “I don’t even — I  _ stop _ myself before I can get into thinking about wanting someone.” The last time he shut down thoughts like that was about Cobb Vanth, who had got him feeling all flustered and wistful. And he had had Boba’s armour, so in an indirect way that had led to him being here. “I just… I’m grateful to you, I like being with you, I — I like there being a reason for me to touch you.” His hands are still on Boba’s back. “Do you want me to keep going?”

“Keep going how?”

“I could take care of your legs too.”

Boba’s quiet for a moment, then he says, “I’d like that. Thanks.”

“Okay.” He’s not really letting himself think about what this means either, or how his heart is beating faster when he moves to kneel at the end of the bed and starts at Boba’s ankles. His legs are thick and strong, and he can feel hard, bulky muscle in his calves. He’s scarred here too, quite heavily, and there are no tattoos. It’s easy to lift his legs from the knee to rub lotion on his shins too, but above the knee will be different. Should he go above the knee? That feels like a big step up in the intimacy of it. He would need to move his hands under the towel. Boba feels him hesitating with his hands on the backs of his knees and hitches it up to about an inch under his backside. That’s pretty clear permission. 

Rubbing the backs of his thighs is definitely more intimate. He can’t shut this feeling down or ignore it. His body feels hot and his cock is getting hard inside what he’s now acutely aware are Boba’s undershorts, the same soft stretchy fabric holding his butt and his private parts that normally holds those parts of Boba, the parts he could touch just by pushing his hands up under that towel. He wants that badly, but he’s not going to reach under someone else’s clothing, even something that’s just sort of clothing-like like a towel around the waist, without  _ knowing _ he’s welcome to do it. He’s rubbing Boba’s thick, strong thighs, his hands sliding with the smooth lotion, and they’re both beginning to breathe harder.

“Come on,” Boba says.

“And do what?”

“Fff…” Boba gives an impatient sigh and rolls onto his back. “Get up here.” Din clambers up the bed, feeling awkward arched over Boba’s body on his hands and knees, and looks down into his face. “Do my chest now,” Boba says. 

It’s so, so much harder and more embarrassing to do this with Boba facing him. His face is burning and must be scarlet. Boba’s a bit flushed too but he seems much more composed than Din feels. He does him the kindness of closing his eyes, thank goodness, because rubbing Boba’s broad chest and feeling it rising and falling as his breathing roughens and his nipples pricking up hard when he touches them is making him feel unbearably hot and flustered, and just as much as he’s embarrassed he’s desperately excited. His cock is tenting out his pants and rubbing against the soft fabric, especially when he moves, shuffling backward to bring his hands lower onto the curve of Boba’s belly, and he’s so focused on how good it all feels and how nervous he is that it takes him a few moments to realise that’s Boba’s erection poking him in the butt, and Boba’s biting his lip trying not to laugh at him. 

“You take everything I say seriously, don’t you?” he asks, opening one eye so it’s as if he’s winking at Din. 

“I’ve never done this before,” Din protests.

“Not at all?” Both eyes open now, and he still looks amused.

“How could I?”

“I don’t know, just because you keep your helmet on doesn’t mean you won’t get your dick out — or bend over for anyone.” He reaches down and grips Din through the fabric of his pants, and his hips quiver and kick forwards. “Someone certainly wants to fuck.”

“I want to but I don’t know what to  _ do. _ I — I know the basic idea but — please help me,” he begs. 

“No,” says Boba, smirking up at him. “I want to see what you’ll do if you have to improvise.” He folds his arms behind his head, which both makes it clear that he’s not going to be any help and makes his chest look especially good. 

“Bastard,” says Din.

“Yep,” says Boba. “Go on. See how far you can get on instinct.”

_ “Damn _ it.” He gives up. He’s hornier than he’s ever been in his life and if Boba’s not going to be helpful he doesn’t deserve any better. He just angles his hips and ruts against him with his eyes shut tight. He can feel Boba smothering laughter and he hates him a little bit but nothing like as much as he wants him. He’s always thought people who claimed they couldn’t stop themselves doing something like this were just stupid but he’s at least stupid enough to  _ feel like _ he can’t stop now. With a blaster to his head, maybe. He can smell Boba’s warm skin and he’s squeezing two handfuls of his chest and the only thing in his mind is  _ feels good feels good feels GOOD.  _ Then his mind goes perfectly blank as he comes against Boba’s belly in a big delicious shudder. He winds down, panting, feeling how the sweat has gathered between his thighs and Boba’s body. He feels very, very wet and sticky.

When he opens his eyes, Boba is still smiling up at him, and asks, “Feel better?”

“Uh-huh.” He relaxes his fingers, hoping he hasn’t actually hurt Boba gripping like that. He’s left yellow-white finger-marks on his chest that fill in red as he slides his hands down.

“No one’s dry-humped me like that in years.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I’m not. Your face when you came was my favourite part.” He takes one hand from behind his head and touches Din’s cock, still half-stiff, and the cum that soaked and spurted through the fabric over it. “Look at this mess. Right in my pants, eh?”

“If you’re only going to make fun of me —”

“No, I’m not.” Boba sits up, pushing Din’s butt into his lap, and kisses him. It gives him a shock, in the nicest way, and he doesn’t know how to respond at first, except by mirroring what Boba does. At first it feels so strange and off to have his lips pressed up to someone else’s. The only kisses in his memory are far off in childhood, to and from his parents, and that’s no preparation for this. Then the strangeness fades and comfort grows, because following Boba’s lead works perfectly well, even as he opens his mouth a little and feels their tongues lightly touch. It’s soft and wet and warm as he wraps his arms around Boba’s shoulders, and he can still feel his hard cock prodding against his butt. The hug is comforting, with Boba holding him tight, and the kissing is sweet, and that prodding makes him think a lot more is meant to happen here. He feels out of place sitting in someone’s lap with his legs wrapped round his waist, and Boba’s hands are sliding down his back to cup and squeeze his buttocks. It’s got him panting again, more softly, and he strokes Boba’s tongue with his. When their mouths part a strand of spit falls wet on his chin and he wipes it with the back of his hand, self-conscious. 

“You wiping the kisses off?” Boba asks. 

“Just the messy part.”

“I should probably have kissed you first, before the dry-humping, but at least I’m doing it before I fuck you.” He squeezes Din’s ass and grinds his cock up against it. “With your permission,” he adds with a little smile. 

“I’ve never —”

“Never done that, got it. Want to do it?” He flicks up his brows saucily. 

“I don’t know. I want  _ you. _ I don’t know how it’ll feel.”

“Luckily I’ve got fingers you can try before you commit to the whole thing.” He kisses Din again, his tongue prodding in stiff. “It feels a little bit like that, just in your ass and about a thousand times better.” 

“What if it doesn’t fit?”

“We’ll find something else to do. But I think it’s going to fit. Aren’t you glad now you took a shower?”

“Yes. Sorry I ruined your pants, though.”

“It’ll wash right out. I love seeing you wear my clothes. Love seeing your face and your body and everything. And finally seeing something like a smile on this face.” He strokes Din’s cheek, fluffing the hair with the side of his thumb. “You’ve looked sad the whole time I’ve known you. Imagine how good I feel being able to change that. Shit, don’t  _ you _ cry.”

“I’m not,” Din says, sniffing it back hard and hugging Boba tight with his chin on his shoulder. It just got him for a moment how sweet Boba could be.

“Don’t get used to the soft stuff,” Boba says, sliding his hand up under Din’s shirt and stroking his back. “I never know when it’s going to come out and it doesn’t last long.” 

“Uh-huh.” He doesn’t quite believe that disclaimer when he feels his back being stroked so gently. He lifts his head and rests his forehead lightly on Boba’s.

“Careful there,” says Boba, tilting his head to the side to kiss some more. He gets both hands up under Din’s shirt and lifts it up, breaking the kiss long enough to pull it over his head, returning to it as he strokes his hands down Din’s chest, pausing to trace his fingertips round his nipples, rubbing them between fingers and thumbs as they perk up. “Like that?” he murmurs, and his voice is deep low gravel. That and the tugging sensation in his nipples and down low in his belly and groin make Din moan, until Boba starts pinching them and he gasps sharply. 

“See? Sorry, the soft stuff’s over,” Boba says, smiling. 

“Keep doing that.”

“Oh really? Good.” 

Din’s getting used to the whole in-his-lap thing, and the kissing is still something he has to concentrate on, and the teasing and pinching is making his nipples more sensitive than he’d have thought possible. 

“Just checking,” Boba says.

“Hnnh?”

“I’m taking it you’re not a total pure-as-beskar virgin, right? That wasn’t your first orgasm there?”

“You’re just fucking with me now.” 

“Ideally,” Boba says smugly. 

“I’m forty years old, it was not the first.” First with company, but Boba doesn’t need to know that.

“I don’t want to assume anything where you’re concerned. You’re unusual. Okay.” He shifts Din off his lap onto the bed and pulls the crumpled towel out from under himself, and grins when Din’s gaze immediately drops to his cock. “Lie down and you can look as much as you want.” He reaches back and slaps the pillow and Din moves quickly to fall back on it. He doesn’t get very long to just look as Boba, up on his knees, bends to pull his pants down from his hips and off his legs, underwear with them, then lies down on top of him to kiss him again. He’s heavy and warm and he pushes Din’s legs apart with his knee. “Keep them open for me.” His kisses are getting heavier too, wet and lush with suction, and he shifts to the point of his chin, then along the line of his jaw, sometimes slipping into a light bite. Din mouths the air, breathing harder, reaching under Boba’s belly to feel his cock, the flaring head and the thick shaft and that one rough curl of scarring he glimpsed at the base, feeling a dizzy mixture of desire and curiosity and sympathy for the pain scrawled on Boba’s skin. He does have some hair left here, thick and a bit coarse. He gives a kind of pleasurable growl and rubs into the palm of Din’s hand. “Get some lotion on it.”

Din fumbles round to find the bottle and pump some out, then brings his hand back between them to stroke and draw a deep grunt from Boba’s throat. 

“Hold it tight,” Boba breathes, fucking into the circle of his thumb and fingers all slick, with some faintly embarrassing squishing sounds. “Don’t worry, your ass probably won’t sound like that.”

“Is that good?”

“It’s  _ so _ good.  _ You’re _ so good, you’re making me so happy, so  _ fucking _ happy. Oof… getting carried away. Stop rubbing, kid, I’ll shoot a load on your belly if you’re not careful.”

“If you’re a year older than me, why am I ‘kid?’”

“Good point, but consider this.” He gives him a long, deep kiss, his jaw rocking against Din’s as he slowly works his tongue, pulling up with a gasp. “Still rubbing?”

“If it’s making you so fucking happy…” It’s making him giddily happy to think he’s giving him that sort of pleasure. 

“Fuck it,” says Boba, sinking back to kiss him and thrusting his hips eagerly, “too good.” Din can feel how he gives up any restraint, rutting just as hard as he did, and when he comes it’s a thick white stream that rushes up the inside of his wrist in insistent spurts. Boba settles to lie half on top of him, half beside, his leg between Din’s, panting and giving little rumbles of satisfaction in his throat. He strokes his cheek again, slides his hand behind his head and presses their foreheads together for a long moment, his eyes closed as he breathes in slow and deep. “Stay close to me.”

“Yes.”

“I mean it. Stay. I want you around.” They lie tangled together for a while, sweat drying on their skins, before Boba asks, “Did you do that because you weren’t sure you wanted me inside you?”

“No. Because the sounds you were making and your face were so good I didn’t want to change anything. I wanted to see what I could do for you.”

“Ah… okay. Good.” He kisses Din softly. “You know what?”

“Hmm?”

“I’ve got plans.”

“For me? Us?” 

“Bigger plans. Stuff we’re planning out, Fennec and me. If you want to stay, I want you to help. This whole dirty, sandy planet… it’s ripe for the taking. The Hutts were disgusting but they knew what they were doing. The guy in charge now, he’s a joke. If I’ve got you watching my back, no one can stop me.”

“Oh…”

“But plans for us? Lots of plans. Most of them happen in bed. One or two on the floor or up against a wall.” Another soft, deep kiss. “Don’t answer right now. Think about it.”

“I don’t need to. I know I’ve got your back.”


End file.
